


How the Mighty Fall (In Love)

by maybeidreamtyou



Series: Cas, you got your ears on? [3]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Cas is in love, Emotional Constipation, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fallen Angels, Hurt/Comfort, Injury, Wings, With Humanity, and by humanity I absolutely mean dean, the usual, they're both just a couple of dumbasses
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-17
Updated: 2019-05-17
Packaged: 2020-03-06 11:19:18
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 18,553
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18850024
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/maybeidreamtyou/pseuds/maybeidreamtyou
Summary: The day after Castiel falls from heaven, he shoves his tongue down Dean's throat.





	How the Mighty Fall (In Love)

**Author's Note:**

> I'm a slut for Castiel falling idk what else y'all want from me

Dean could be a little more tactful about it.

"Holy  _shit_ , Cas."

Though, and in terms of reality, Dean thinks they're both a little to blame for the bluntness. He could've watched his language, and Cas could've anticipated the response. Because, after all, angels don't just show up on people's doorsteps at three in the morning with their wings out and about for the world to see. Especially not after being missing for weeks on end. Or when they have the key to let themselves inside.

Nevertheless, though, when Dean opens the door, Cas is pissed. He grumbles something unintelligible as he makes his way in, shoving past Dean with enough force to show that he's anything but thrilled about the situation. Dean can't even find it in himself to be mad about it. He just watches, baffled and ducking out of the way as Cas heads down the stairs and towards the kitchen.

At the bottom, Sam's gaping, at Cas, at Dean, until Cas is through the threshold and out of sight. He shoots his brother a look.

Dean shoots it back. "I didn't mean it in a  _bad_  way," he argues, hands up in defense, but he takes the trip to ground level and rounds into the kitchen after Cas anyway. The room is empty when he gets there.

Around the corner, down the hall, Cas's door slams.

"Well," Sam starts, huffing, "go talk to him."

Dean blanks. He stares at Sam, waiting for a sign that this might be a joke. That Sam, in his just-woke-up glory, might actually have a sense of humor and be kidding for once in his life. Unfortunately, that is far from the case.

"He's been missing for weeks," Sam points out, still going, crossing his arms over his chest. "He finally shows up, we've got no idea what happened, and you hurt his feelings in the first two seconds."

"I don't think  _I_  did anything," Dean answers. He feels like he should be offended, but he also feels like he's a goddamn asshole with entitlement issues. He sighs, "If he took that to heart,  _you_  should go talk to him. I'm shit with emotional stuff."

" _Your_ angel,  _your_ big mouth,  _your_ mess."

Dean doesn't bother with arguing. Sam doesn't stick around long enough to hear it.

 

* * *

 

Dean knocks once. Cas doesn't answer. 

"Cas," he begins, dropping it shortly after. It shouldn't be this hard— _I'm sorry_. Two words. he's said two words before. It shouldn't be this hard.

But it is.

He reaches for the doorknob, finding it open when he tries it. Cas doesn't yell about him showing up uninvited, so he thinks, for what it's worth, that the surprise visit is fine. He freezes then, nerves stopping. Muscles forgetting how to work. It's two words. It shouldn't be this  _hard_.

He steps in, quietly, trying to hush the creak of the hinges as he shuts the door softly behind himself. The room's dimly lit by the single lamp in the corner, but even still, Dean can see it—the tears in the fabric of Cas's clothing where his wings shoot out of his back. The way his shoulder blades protrude awkwardly and turn into feathers at the edge of skin.

The words slip right off his tongue.

"Holy shit."

Two words. (The  _wrong_ two words). There's a beat.

"Yes, so you've said."

 _"Fuck,"_  Dean curses, knocking it under his breath, because, shit,  _fuck_ —he did it again. "Cas, I didn't—"

"It's fine."

It isn't.

"Cas," he regroups, reroutes. Tries a bit harder to keep his foot out of his mouth, "Can you—what  _happened?"_

"I—" Cas tries, voice straining.  There's something in the way he sounds that brings a direness to the situation. His previous anger is gone, and he sits completely still save for where his left wing is trying to extend and failing at doing so. He winces loudly. Dean moves forward.

"Don't do that," he places a hand on Cas's arm, cautiously, gently, just enough to get his attention. There's no weight behind it, and he pulls away when he sees the wing fall back in place.

It's weird to see Cas like this—with his wings on display, black arches littered by crimson patches so dark they blend in with the feathers. They look mangled, and Dean can't help but jump to worst case scenarios. It can't be pretty, especially if Cas went through the trouble to manifest the things.

"How bad is it?" Dean asks. He's not looking for an answer. He's staring, dumbfounded, trying to figure out what to do. Where to start. "We can get Sam in here, have him take a look—"

" _No!"_ Cas shouts, before Dean can even finish. He doesn't give an explanation, but his head snaps up, and for the first time since they've interacted today, he meets Dean's eyes. He looks wild, his own eyes glassy and full of fire. His face is hard, and Dean can't look away. He just stands there, waiting, searching for, for  _something_.

He gets nothing.

"Alright," he says, slowly. Nodding. "No Sam, but you gotta talk to me, man. I need to know how bad this is. Can you heal yourself?"

Cas doesn't speak. Dean counts that as a no.

"Can you move them?"

The silent treatment continues, and Dean starts to freak, just a bit. He glances back over Cas, his broken wings, his torn up clothing. The split lip and blood on his shirt.

"Cas," he presses, moving to squat between the guy's legs. He ignores the positioning, concentrates on Cas's face instead. "Buddy, say something."

"I'm...stuck," Cas explains, looking at the space where the wall meets the ceiling, sounding defeated. He does his best to keep emotion out of his words, but his breath hitches slightly, and his shoulders droop forward. "There is not enough grace inside of me to keep my wings off this plane. Not anymore."

Two words. (Again.) The  _wrong_  two words.

Dean tries not to think about them. He avoids them at all costs, runs his thoughts to anything that isn't the issue of an angel's diminishing grace. He focuses on Cas, on his injuries and the way he's shaking ever so slightly. On the way his eyes look wet when he drops his gaze to Dean. On the way he looks so  _lost_.

"Okay," Dean says, and it's cautious. He takes a breath, swallows. "You run into a witch? Is this—is this a spell? Did an angel—tell me who or what did this, and we'll  _fix_  it. We'll hunt the son of a bitch down and reverse it. We can work through this, Cas."

Cas stares at him, in awe, like this is the dumbest idea he's ever heard. "We can't fix this. No one can."

It's cold, chilling. Stated in a way that makes it sound indisputable. Dean wants to ask again, to shake the angel until he explains what's going on in detail, but he doesn't. He remains squatting, frowning for a moment longer until he realizes Cas isn't going to say any more on the matter.

He stands, moving to walk around to Cas's back. "If I take a look, I'm gonna have to have to touch your wings.  You okay with that?"

Cas hesitates, and Dean retracts.

"It's...that is fine." But it's clearly not fine, because Cas is stiff as all hell, and he's speaking like it's the last thing he ever wants to do. Dean keeps his hands to himself.

"Cas."

"It's okay," Cas repeats.

Dean waits. A second, maybe two.

"If you're sure." He owes Cas an apology. Owes him two words, but he can't do it. He lowers his left hand, then his right, laying the first flat against the back of the right wing. His second traces along the top arch.

There's gashes and breaks everywhere. His fingers hit a new injury with every few centimeters, and it's just straight up awful. "Cas," he starts, stopping as soon as the word is out, pulling his hand away to find that it's stained red. It's a new sight. It's a terrifying sight.

_If it bleeds, you can kill it._

He turns away, staring at the blood where it's running into the cracks of his palm. It stains his fingerprints, his life line.

"I'm gonna get the kit, okay? Sit tight."

He's out the door without a word, all but running to the nearest sink to wash the blood—an  _angel's_  blood, no less—off his hands. He skips out on his reflection, dipping his head down to avoid the mirror as he dries his hands and runs the towel under the faucet. He holds it tight, grabbing the first aid kit and heading back out.

The room is just as quiet when he gets back—Cas hasn't moved, and Dean's breath sounds unnaturally loud in the silence. He pushes through, sets up camp and uses the towel to start cleaning individual feathers.

It goes down white, comes up red. 

_If it bleeds—_

Dean feels his heart skip a beat. Two words. It's not that hard.

"Hold still."

 

* * *

 

About halfway through, Dean heads into the kitchen for a breather. They've still got work to do, wounds to patch and stitch, but he can't do it if he can't breathe. He's closing his eyes, inhaling and holding it. Letting it out on the count of three.

"Hey," Sam says, interrupting. It's surprising that he's still awake, and Dean startles. "Everything okay?"

"No," Dean laughs, but it's not because the situations funny. It's the furthest thing from even being humorous. It's unbelievable, truly. They've got a stitched up, half-mute angel sitting in the other room, and Dean's playing house like it can all be put back together with peroxide and band-aids.

"Pretty far from it, actually."

 

* * *

 

Dean's not stupid. He knows angels can die, and that they were running the risk of that happening by merely being friends with one, but without grace, the probability of having it happen to Cas is through the roof. So when his fight or flight instincts kick to  _flight_ , he bites his tongue and toughs it out. Asks: "You hurt anywhere else?"

It's not because he can handle the answer. Hell, he's not even because he  _wants_  to know the answer. He asks it because he  _needs_  to know. Because Cas is bleeding and losing grace and Dean's two seconds away from losing his mind.

When Cas doesn't move, Dean prompts him.

"You being unresponsive isn't really helping me here," Dean tries. He reaches for the trench coat. "C'mon, get this off. I need to check the rest of you."

Thankfully, that registers. Cas stands, awkwardly, uncomfortably, legs only looking slightly unsteady when Dean glances down at them. He watches as Cas tries stripping out of the jacket, as he tries pulling his arm out of his sleeves. As he hisses when the fabrichits against the base of his wing. As he tries once more, with the other arm, but stumbles, and gives up. His expression wobbles as much as his legs.

"I've got you," Dean tells him, softly, stepping over. He moves around Cas's back, surveying the way the wings are sitting in the ripped fabric. It's all just torn, like they'd exploded through his back without warning, and Dean can't imagine that the process of them doing that was all that comfortable. He rethinks his original idea.

"We might have to cut this stuff off."

Cas sits back down on the bed, dejectedly. He doesn't protest. "Okay."

Dean shifts weight, uncomfortable solely for the reason that he doesn't know what to say. Everything he can think of sounds bad, or would be bad in practice, and it sucks. He heads for the door. "I'm gonna grab scissors."

Cas nods. Silently.

He looks tired.

 

* * *

 

Sam isn't in the kitchen when Dean comes back.

Dean takes the time to break down, properly now. He falls forward onto his palms on the counter. Closes his eyes.

Breathes in. Out.

He grabs the scissors. Heads for Cas's room.

 

* * *

 

His hands shake as he works.

And it's weird. God, it's so weird. There once was a time where he could shoot a whole roll of ammunition into Cas's chest without blinking, and now he's scared to come near the guy with a pair of scissors.

 _Scissors_. Of all things.

He does it anyway, angling the things so that the crux of the blades works against the fabric of the trench coat and blazer. Eventually, they fall, pooling on the comforter between them. Dean sits back on his heels. His nerves are flaring. Cas must sense it.

He opens his mouth, but does not move. His eyes remain zoned in on a random spot on the wall. "Everyone thinks angels' wings are part of their being."

Dean continues, maneuvering fabric and metal and trying not to hang off the words, trying not to bank on them to ground him right now. He fails miserably.

"And they are not wrong, but they are, in a way."

Dean frowns, now. He has questions, yet he doesn't speak, because this isn't his story to tell. Or interrupt. Or conflict. So he keeps his mouth shut, works on getting the tip of the scissor under the white of the dress shirt and snipping toward Cas's neck. "Head down."

Cas follows instructions as he talks, sniffling lightly, though it's possible Dean's imagining things. "Angels wings are one of the more...personal features of their bodies. They are great, and they are grand, and powerful."

There's a bit of hesitancy. "And they are intimate."

Dean snips the last of the fabric, setting the right wing free as the dress shirt falls on top of the other layers on the bed. This time, he opens his mouth. "Intimate," he says, testing out the word. "As in, like,  _sexual_  intimacy? That's kind of kinky, Cas. I gotta say."

Cas dips his head a bit lower, and Dean starts up on the fabric of the dress shirt above the left wing. " _Engaging_  with an angel's wings is considered intimate. Not the wings themselves."

There's emphasis now, and Dean's trying not to focus on it. Two words. He owes so many versions of those two words, and he just can't muster up a single one. Instead, he moves his hand away from the top of the beginning of the wing, suddenly hyper aware of the placement. "I didn't mean to—"

Cas reaches a hand back, searching blindly for Dean's and magically finding it, just short of hitting the blade of the scissors instead. Dean freezes.

"You didn't."

"Okay," Dean says, but he doesn't move, not until Cas pulls away a minute later. He lifts the scissors, fingers trembling, and guides them up toward the remaining fabric. He snips at the collar, and it's all so overwhelming.

It shouldn't be, not really. It's just Cas, bare from the waist up and sitting there. Winged and mostly human.

Dean swallows. As expected, scars line the place where the wings poked through skin. He wants to touch them, to know how it feels and what it felt like and to melt into Cas's thoughts. Just for a moment, just an instant. He wants to ask if they hurt, if he can do anything to help, but all that comes out is—

"Cas."

Cas says nothing. The sound tumbles off the walls and echoes back in daggers that poke through Dean's ribs. His stomach churns and now would be a great time to  _open his mouth_  and  _apologize._

"Cas," Dean says again, his level of desperation rising, because now Cas is shirtless, back to being silent, and all but crying where he's perched on the edge of the bed. Dean still doesn't have a single answer as to what happened. "I'm all well and good with just knowing that you're okay, but you've gotta give me a little insight as to what's going on here. Are you in trouble? Is someone after you? Are you—"

The words fall away from him, coming to a halt as he waits for an answer. He remains standing this time, so that Cas is forced to lift his head from where it's tucked into his chest to stare up at Dean. Cas does, eventually, but when he does, it hurts, and it hurts bad.

"I'm falling."

 

The statement lingers for a moment, hanging over Dean's head until he works up the nerve to speak. "Are you sure you're falling?"

Slowly, Cas nods, a small, sad smile dragging the corner of his mouth upward. "I think I have been for a while now."

 

* * *

 

The birds are chirping, Dean thinks. It's early enough, and if the bunker had windows, he's sure he'd see the beginning of a sunrise by now. But Cas hasn't moved since he last spoke, and Dean's too worried about him to go check the color of the sky.

"You're one of the best goddamn angels they've got up there," he whispers, and he means it, voice cutting sharp through the silence, "Chosen by God, fought his way through hell and came back out on top. You've got more than my respect, Cas. And I'm not just saying it because I'm the sorry sap you saved."

Cas is watching him, eyes holding something else, an emotion Dean can't read on him. It's something pure, full of awe and wonder and maybe a bit of disbelief. It's something Dean's never seen before. Not on Cas, and sure as hell not directed at himself.

"You've fought wars, Cas. Put up with the dumbest souls for thousands of years, and always went after what's right. You—"

Cas doesn't let him finish. He rushes forward, quickly, rashly, and smashes his mouth against Dean's.

It's sloppy, and Dean's eyes are wide open for the whole five seconds that it lasts for. But Cas's hands are on his face and he's pulling Dean in so desperately that Dean can't do anything but comply.

Until Cas pulls away, and everything becomes real again.

"Dean, I'm—"

"Cas," Dean says, cautiously, lips still slightly parted. He's taken aback, kind of wonderfully, albeit confused. Yet Cas looks like he's just made the biggest mistake of his life. "It's okay."

His eyes are big and blue, full of shock and disbelief. His hands cover the majority of his face and his body shakes ever so slightly.

"Dean," he croaks, trying again and failing horribly, " _I_ —"

"Cas," Dean repeats, slowly. Cautiously moving to pull Cas's hands away from his face so he can look the angel in the eyes. Cas lets himself be maneuvered, even if it means that he's gaping out in the open. He looks like he might cry, and Dean doesn't know what to do.

"It's okay."

"It's  _not_ —"

"It  _is_ —"

Cas opens his mouth again, but this time, before he can argue, Dean dives forward. He grabs Cas by the fistfuls, and tugs until their lips are reconnected.

It's the furthest thing from the plan.

It lasts longer this time, a whole minute, maybe. Dean doesn't know. He doesn't count. Loses track of time and all. It's terrible, awful, and when they separate, Cas looks even more shellshocked than he did the first time.

He blinks at Dean innocently. Waiting anxiously for an explanation Dean can't give.

"It's okay," Dean repeats.

Cas blinks once more. Then he swallows. Sits up straight. "It's okay."

"Yeah," Dean says, biting the inside of his cheek, because  _no, no this isn't the plan. This is the absolute opposite of anything he ever meant to do ever—_ "Okay?"

Cas smiles, finally. It's small, and closed mouthed, but Dean'll take it. Cas falls into him, cheek pressed against his shoulder. He sounds as exhausted as Dean feels. "Okay."

 

* * *

 

It's early when Dean works up enough nerve to head into the kitchen. He's jittery, and since Cas fell asleep around six, it's been tensely silent. His nerves are going haywire and betraying every command he gives them to  _calm down_.

He figures he's in line for a break. Plus, on the bright side, Sam's probably awake again.

Sam is, in fact, awake and sitting at the table, black coffee in the white mug to his left. It's perched next to his open laptop, right in front of him and blocking most of his chest from Dean's line of vision.

"Hey," he says, not glancing up. "How's—"

"Cas is falling," Dean blurts. He's not too sure it's his information to be sharing, but it's Sam. And this is more than he knows how to handle.

"Oh," Sam says, "wow."

"Yeah," Dean starts, scrubbing at his face. He walks over to the coffee machine and pulls a mug from the cabinet above it. Pours a decent amount in and drinks it black. When he turns back, he finds Sam, who, in his stupor, has yet to stop staring.

"Um, sorry, uh—How's he doing?" he asks, leaning forward to shut his laptop. "Can we help?"

"I don't know," Dean says, shaking his head. He takes a seat across from his brother, and stares ahead, blankly. "I've never seen him like that. Guy has every emotion in the book go through him, and then—"

Sam waits.

Dean takes a breath. "He kisses me."

Sam blinks. "Um."

"Yeah," Dean says. "I think that's where he's been—falling, off somewhere being as stubborn as he always is instead of letting us help. If we even  _can_ help. I—are you listening?"

"Sorry, I just—um," he blinks, moves to sit up straight in his chair. "You kissed— _Cas_? As in like, Cas Cas?"

"Do you know another one?"

"No—trust me. I don't think anyone knows another one. Just—you, and Cas? Like,  _Cas_ , Cas. Pulled you from hell, rebelled against Heaven for you, falling—oh." He stops. "Dean, you said— _Cas_  kissed  _you_?"

"Yeah," Dean says, somewhere beyond irked and venturing into the fields of feeling guilty. "You don't have to tell me how much of an asshole I am. I—He was just confused, and—"

"I don't think he's confused about anything," Sam cuts him off. "Think about it—what have we ever done for him?"

"Jesus, it's seven a.m., we've got a broken angel three doors down, and you choose  _now_  to start the pity party?"

"Not what I mean, Dean," Sam rolls his eyes. He stares Dean down, elbows on the table as he asks: "He's  _falling_. Don't you get it?"

Dean shakes his head, because no, he doesn't get it. He doesn't even know what there is to get. His mouth disappears into his mug, steam hitting him in the face as he draws his eyes down to the table, finding far more interest in the scratched up wood than his brother. Sam doesn't relent.

"Dean," he starts again, waiting. He's not going to make this easy, and Dean isn't about to make it complicated.

"Sam," he counters, hiding back behind ceramics, because alright, so  _maybe_  he knows what Sam's getting at. Maybe. But the thought, the theory—it's  _outrageous_. Cas isn't—he could never—And to be thinking about this now, of all times.

It's then that Cas comes to stand in the doorway, squinting through the light of the kitchen and smiling a little when he sees Dean. He's wearing a shirt that Dean modified for him, an old band tee with holes cut in the back to fit over the wings. He looks  _good_. 

Dean promptly shuts his mouth, and winces.  _Asshole,_ his brain chimes in.

Cas takes a seat at the table, across from Sam, next to Dean, and slumps, folding his wings behind him. Sam glances at Dean, quickly. "Hey, Cas."

"I assume Dean told you," Cas responds, and Dean wonders if spilling information should be added to his list of owed apologies. But Cas reaches over to steal Dean's coffee, scooping the mug away with one cupped hand, and suddenly, Dean's mind is elsewhere.

Sam glances at him, again, and Dean doesn't miss it. There's something somber on his face that contradicts the attitude he'd previously addressed the situation with. Still, he expects Sam to say something stupid, to ask:  _which part? The one where you shoved your tongue down my brothers throat, or the one where you fell from grace?_

But he doesn't. He says nothing.

"That I'm fallen," Cas continues, providing information without being prompted.

Dean corrects: " _Falling_. Present tense."

The fact that the verb is still present gives him hope. It means they have time. That nothing's written in stone. That they can fix it.

That Cas won't be stuck like this forever.

Cas looks at him, and Dean can't read him. There's a sadness on his face, a soft pity that makes Dean's heart jump to his throat. He breathes in, out. Steals back the mug, and finishes off the mix of caffeine and Cas's backwash.

Sam picks up where they left off, getting back to the matter at hand, and thank God for him, because Dean's chest is so tight it might burst.

"Cas, are you—what  _happens_  when an angel falls?"

"I don't know for sure," Cas states, plainly.  "But as of currently, Dean is right. I'm falling, present-tense. I still have some remaining grace. Not a lot, but enough to still be considered an angel."

"Maybe it'll replenish," Dean says, stupidly, and he knows it's a dumb comment, because Cas's expression turns sadder, and Sam's drops into a blankness.

He smiles politely when he catches Dean looking, hiding whatever else he's thinking way down in the pit of his stomach.

Dean bites back anxiety. Claps a hand on Cas's shoulder. Redirects. 

"Let's get you something to eat, yeah?"

 

* * *

 

Somehow, someway, Cas is handling his situation better than Dean.

And that's, well that's just straight up  _wrong_ , isn't it? Like paternal pregnancy pain. He's not pregnant, and he sure as hell ain't on a one way trip from heaven to earth. He's got no right. 

Yet he's still freaking.

It's not unnoticeable, because Sam checks in with him more than normal, and even Cas is asking him if he's alright. Cas, the one with giant, broken wings and diminishing grace.

"'M fine, Cas," Dean reaches for the bandages. "How are these holding up?"

He still owes the guy that apology, even though it seems so trivial now. Cas shrugs. It's almost hurtful. "Fine, Dean."

"You in pain?"

Another shrug. Dean pulls back a bandage anyway. The injuries look the same, still scraped and scratched out and that's, that's new. He risks a look up, at the back of Cas's head.

Cas's wings shrink away from Dean's touch.

"I don't have enough grace to focus on that," he explains. "It needs to—I cant afford to spend it on healing wounds that I know can heal in time."

Dean takes the words like a punch to the stomach—he feels winded. What the hell does he know about angels? About  _falling_  angels?

But he lets it go.

 

* * *

 

Dean looks it up. He spends most of his day in the library, isolates and buries himself in websites and books and articles and whatever else he can find. Problem is: he can't find shit.  The last account of fallen angels he can see is from the beginning of time, and on Lucifer, and falling because of direct disobeying of God.

The account on Dean's hands is thousands of years later, and  _Cas_ , and falling without apparent reason.

At least, without reason that Dean's aware of.

Though, that isn't stuff a person can just come out and ask. Is it? He'd feel awful, asking Cas that. Asking what he could've done that was so bad to get cast out of Heaven.

He'd feel weird asking Sam, too. For possible reasons, for a laundry list of what could've gone wrong up in the holy hell of a gated mess.

Long story short: they're stuck. There's no one else they can call. Not without exposing Cas's vulnerability to demons and witches he barely trusts as it is.

He pushes the books away, closes the laptop and puts his head down. It's for a moment, he swears, but when he sits up, his arms ache from being crossed for so long, and his eyes are bleary from being closed for such a long time. He twists, to the left, to the right, pops his back and comes back to look ahead of him. To find a mop of black hair and a pair of wings to match.

He cocks an eyebrow. Blinks a few times to make sure he's seeing this correctly. "Cas?"

Cas doesn't move. He's out cold, top half of his body sprawled out on the table.

" _Cas_."

This time, Cas stirs, and Dean feels a little guilty for the rude awakening.

"Sorry," Cas grumbles. He picks his head up, scrubs at his face where there's a red line the size of his arm running down his temple. "Sam said you were in here."

"Okay, and?" It comes out harsher than he means. Cas doesn't retract.

 He looks different. Younger, maybe. His hair is sticking up and he's got bags under his eyes like Dean's never seen before. It's the first time he's ever seen the guy look so... _human_.

"I do not wish to make you uncomfortable, but can—would you mind—"

"Yes," Dean says, perhaps a bit too quickly. He blames it on exhaustion. On his desire to get out of his jeans and into a bed. "You snore, though, and you're out."

 

* * *

 

It's late. Er, early. Cas is asleep, and Dean can't help but notice how fragile he looks when he's unconscious. He does a double take, stares at Cas's chest until he's certain it's moving. He counts breaths—one, two, in, out.

And again—one, two. In, out. Up—

"Dean," Cas mumbles, shifting slightly, eyes still closed. "Are you alright?"

And there he goes  _again_. Dean startles, holding his own breath to keep from screaming.

"Yeah," he says, "Yeah, I'm—go back to sleep, Cas."

Cas does, but he rolls over first, curling his body in toward Dean and a hand around his bicep. It's an invitation, Dean thinks, to come closer if he wishes. So he does, slowly, inching back down and under the covers until they're pressed against each other. Cas covers them, perhaps unconsciously, draping his wing over Dean where he lies as a form of protection.

 

* * *

 

Dean dreams of his mother.

She tucks him in, gently, brushes hair away from his face.

 _Angels are watching over you_ , she says.  _But wait until you see the ruin you cause them._

 

* * *

 

It's not that bad.

Really. Dean keeps offering Cas Advil, offering him everything, trying to hover without being annoying about it. Cas refuses, each time, and Dean thinks that if the guy was in that much pain, he'd say something about it, Angel mojo or not.

So it's like he said—not that bad. Fine. Fan-freaking-tastic.

And then Castiel wakes up screaming.

It's wailing, to be correct, sobs that rip up through his chest and pour out his lips. That gets Dean to shoot up on his side of the bed and scramble for Cas first, instead of the light. He reaches out two hands, places either awkwardly on a corresponding arm. "Cas?"

Another scream.

"Cas, man, you gotta talk to me," Dean pleads, watching as the half-angel writhes on the sheets.

Something lights up in Cas's chest. Its an odd color, a glowing, glittery light that pools below his sternum. The oddity pulses like a heartbeat, and as it grows, it spreads like wild fire over Cas's ribs until his entire chest is lit up.

It keeps going, filtering into Cas's shoulders and stomach enough to have Dean register what this is. This is Cas's grace, or—er, what's left of it.

Dean stares, in awe, but he does not falter. He places his free hand over the light in the center of Cas's chest, and just like that, it vanishes. Contact is solely between palm and fabric. Cas shoots up.

Dean doesn't bother with trying to hold him down. He pulls back and gets out of the way as Cas sputters—into his hands at first, then into Dean.

 

* * *

 

They don't talk about it. Cas won't talk about it, and Dean's nearly convinced that it was all just another nightmare. But it wasn't. And it isn't.

"Cas," Dean says, "I think we need to talk."

Cas blinks. Opens his mouth. Dean rewinds.

"Not like that," he amends, quickly. "Just—how did, how are you feeling?"

"Fine, Dean."

"Cas," he says, once more, clearing his throat. He walks around to stand in front of Cas. "I—I need you to be real with me, okay? No sugarcoating. Can this—will this kill you?"

There's no shrug this time. There's no anything. No words. No apologies.

There's only panic. And hope.

 

* * *

 

Dean can't sleep. He's apart from Cas this time, because Cas asked to be alone, and Dean would be damned if he didn't give the guy what he wanted.

But he can't sleep.

There's blood behind his eyes. Blood and guts and gore and grace and the death of Castiel. He gasps awake, stomach churning, acid in his chest. In his throat, crawling up his esophagus as he moves for the bathroom.

An angel fights wars. Wins wars. Is the soldier for God, and survives it all.

Dean touches him once, and—

 

* * *

 

Dean vomits. It's about as appealing as it sounds, and it sucks. He grips the the toilet tightly, knuckles going white around the rim as visions of Cas's dead body swirl behind his eyes.

He dry heaves, once, twice—

Sits up, gasping, wiping at his mouth with his sleeve.

 

* * *

 

"Can this kill him?" Dean asks, frantically, drumming his hands against his thigh to keep the nervousness out of his voice.

"I don't know," Sam confesses. He's caught off guard, but he's got enough in him to pick up on the situation. He flips a pancake, turns to Dean when he realizes his brother hasn't moved. Puts down the spatula momentarily. "I'll look into it."

 

* * *

 

Dean needs out, just for a second. Just a breather and some fresh air, because this is all so—

He needs a second. Just a second. Maybe an hour.

"I'm heading to the store," he says, pulling on his jacket and grabbing at keys before either of them can stop him. "If you've got requests, shout 'em out or forever hold your peace."

Sam doesn't look up. He turns the page of his book.

"Vegetables, Dean— _actual_  vegetables. Fruits, even. It's two against one now. We're not always banking on fried foods."

"Great," Dean toys with the cuffs of his shirt, of his jacket, staring at anything else but the two of them, "Fine. Cas?"

"I could go with you." He's on his feet in seconds, and Dean's chest feels oddly acidic. He looks at Sam, helplessly, who's staring right back, and stuttering a bit. He takes over, anyway, looking over to Cas and closing the book he'd been going through.

"Um, Cas—I think maybe you should sit this one out."

"Oh, right," Cas says, glancing back. He looks ashamed, and Dean's stomach does a flip.

He shares a look with Sam, who's biting the inside of his cheek like he doesn't quite know what to make of the situation. Dean shrugs off his jacket. Sighs.

"Alright Vegetable Tyrant, now's your time to shine. You're going."

The look Sam and Cas give him is almost identical, head's snapping up and brows furrowed in confusion. Dean makes the mistake of looking at Cas, whose expression differs. His mouth is open slightly, and his head is tilted in a way that shows he really doesn't understand what's going on.

"I forgot about something I need to do," Dean says, nonchalantly, tossing the keys over to Sam as he moves his gaze away from Cas completely. "Just make sure you get pie."

"Right," Sam huffs out a breath that sounds more like a half laugh, and the right corner of his mouth shoots upward. He's smiling in a way that's subtle, but far more effective in making Dean want to explode here and now.

"Cas, you want anything special?"

The angel's taken back, just a bit, but enough that Dean catches it. He blinks at Dean, then at Sam. "No, thank you."

"Okay," Sam nods. "Be back in an hour."

He heads out the door with three long strides backward, nodding proudly at Dean. Dean could kill him.

There's a silence, then. Heavy, tense. Cas breaks it tactlessly.

"Dean?"

It's innocent enough, Dean thinks, just Cas trying to make sense of this whole situation.

Dean doesn't answer. He takes a breath, long and deep, decides that if they're gonna do this, they're gonna do it right. "Alright, hot wings. Just me and you. Whole place to ourselves. What's first on your list?"

Cas doesn't give him an answer. He watches as Dean swipes the two abandoned plates on the table and brings them to the sink. Dean wants to prompt him again, to fill the silence, because it's ringing in his ears and driving him mad.

He doesn't. In the distance, Sam lets the main door swing shut behind him.

"I'm sorry I kissed you."

The words chase Sam right out the door. They bounce back, off the walls, through Dean's bones and brain so fast that his automatic word processor fails and all that makes it off is tongue is:  _"Oh."_

They stare at each other, for a moment. Maybe two.

Dean breaks eye contact first. He clears his throat, brings a hand to scrub over his mouth. In front of him, behind Castiel, shadows of wings dance across the floor.

"The apology upset you," Cas notes. It's not a question. He's not asking. He's saying it, plain as day, like he's already in Dean's head and reading every thought word by word.

"Don't worry about it."

He's moving. Busying himself to get away from this topic as quickly as possible. Hands in the sink, washing dishes, of all things. Cas comes up behind him, quietly, pads over on the cement and turns off the tap. Dean jumps. Makes a mental note to get the guy a bell.

"I'm sorry," Cas repeats, and if he says it one more time, Dean's going to have to kill him. He makes it look so  _easy_. "I don't understand. You wanted that?"

"I did kiss you first the second time," he admits, and there's something very, very nerve wracking about spilling feelings like this. The tips of his ears heat red. The blood rushes to his face. And shit. Fuck. He takes it back, he should have never opened his mouth.

But then he turns, suddenly way too close to Castiel, and does it all over again. "Did you  _not_  want that?"

Cas stares at him, blankly. Dean thinks this would be a good time to hightail it out of here. But Cas must read that, too, because he's stepping forward to close off the last bit of proximity before Dean can move an inch. "Did I do something to suggest that I didn't?"

Oh.  _Oh_. Dean's heart kicks it up to the highest notch, and he's thinking that if Cas doesn't do something soon, he'll have a heart attack right this second. Cas doesn't move.

"I think this makes me an asshole," Dean whispers, closing his eyes, breathing deep, dipping his head down and seconds away from pressing in. He's centimeters away from Castiel's mouth, and he wants this so badly it  _hurts_. They dance around the kiss, metaphorically, heads tilting back and forth, lips hovering, moving like a silent melody, but never touching.

"I didn't fall for a saint."

Dean's breath hitches. It's five words. Three more than he's meant to say. Three more than Cas always says. It's five words, and yet still enough to smack Dean back into reality.

He pulls away, quickly, abruptly, and Cas follows, nearly tottering forward and falling into Dean's chest. "Dean—"

"C'mon," Dean keeps his gaze elsewhere. "It's a movie day. If you're gonna be getting acquainted with humanity, I've gotta get you up to speed on your references."

 

* * *

 

Dean wakes up to  _Titanic_.

It's blurry, and he feels a strange sense of deja vu, because all he does recently is fall asleep and panic. And it's exactly what he's doing now: waking up, and panicking.

"Sam wanted to draw on you," Cas says, pulling him out of it and munching on popcorn that Dean didn't even know they had in this place. His legs are crossed, and he's hunched forward, slightly, leaning toward the screen, right where Dean last remembers seeing him last.

Dean's hands come up to his face, fingertips pressing against his upper lip, because if Sam was going to go for anything, it would be a sharpie mustache. Maybe glasses, too, depending on the day.

"I did not allow him," Cas turns to face him, offering over the bowl. "Popcorn?"

"No—uh, thanks, but I'm good."

Cas shrugs, returning to being lost in the program as Dean sits up and attempts at cracking his back. He hits into something—it's black and seemingly everywhere, encompassing him entirely. "Uh, Cas?"

"Yeah?" Cas hums.

"Wings," Dean clarifies, and that catches the angel off guard. Cas blinks, eyes falling away from the television completely and darting over to where his right wing is curled around Dean protectively. His expression and lips fall slack before he catches himself and straightens out.

"My apologies, Dean."

The wings vanish, and Dean feels a gust of cold air prickle his skin. Cas stands, popcorn bowl forgotten on the couch. Dean stares, dumbfounded, as he leaves.

On the screen, Leonardo DiCaprio is shouting.

_You jump, I Jump. Remember?_

 

* * *

 

"I don't know what I'm doing," Dean confesses, and Sam looks lost where he's shredding a head of lettuce.

"Dean," he says, slowly, "it's only Cas."

"Yeah," Dean confirms, "it's  _Cas_. That's the scary part."

 

* * *

 

"Cas, where did you go?"

Sometimes, Dean wonders if this is just a bad dream. If he's fallen asleep or taken by Djinn or enchanted with a potion that makes him dumb enough to believe that Castiel, angel of the Lord, could possibly want this much to do with him.

Sometimes, he hopes it's a dream, because if it's a dream, then Cas isn't falling. Then he can live happily with his brother and best friend without all the fucking chaos.

But this—this is real. Dean knows. And it's fragile, reality— _his_ reality. Angels with diminishing grace and a life that could be ripped from him at any moment. At the edge of a blade or a barrel of a gun. At the end of a deal. At anything, really.

He swallows. "Before you showed up. Where did you go?"

"I did not wish to worry you."

"So, what?" Dean turns on his side, "You knew that you were falling, you—you hid it from us?"

"Yes."

They're in Cas's bed, again, because Cas asked Dean to stay, and Dean couldn't really say no to that. They're in the dark, and too far in distance to be touching. 

"Why did you come back?"

Silence.

"Alright," Dean says. He's angry. Inside, outside. Screaming, in his head. Asking things like  _Hell, Cas, why didn't you just wait it out and die somewhere without us knowing? Why didn't you just leave me to wonder where the fuck you went? To wonder what drove you away? If you were dead or alive or—_

He doesn't ask any of that. Because Cas did come back. And he's alive, and that's enough for Dean. Sort of.

He asks a different question. "Why wouldn't you let Sam look at your wings?"

Deep down, Dean knows. Part of him thinks he's known from the start. He's always known, he's sure. He thinks. Maybe. He doesn't want to ask.

"Engaging with an angels wings is considered intimate." Cas says, to the pillow now, mostly. He's on his stomach, face pressed into the pillowcase and body half covered by the duvet. He turns his head to the side, so that Dean can see his eyes in the dark.

The conversation dies there, and Dean thinks he's supposed to be getting something from this. A hint or a cue or—

He doesn't know. He's bad with words and reading comprehension, so he bites the bullet and shifts around, inching toward Cas until he can feel the angel's breath on his face. Cas says nothing, even now. Instead, he leans in, just as silently as he's fallen, and presses a kiss to the corner of Dean's mouth.

"I only let you touch them," Cas continues, quietly, and there's a hand on Dean's shoulder now, ghosting over where the hand print was when he got out of hell. It glows blue, like Cas's chest. And that starts it—the eruption.

Light surges from the touch and the whole room glows. It's like a power surge, but stronger, circuiting through Cas's eyes and wings and flaring.  Suddenly, Cas isn't Cas anymore.

He's something more—a glowing ball of blue light that shines brighter than a thousand suns. He  _is_ the sun. He's a lion and a cherub and galaxies with churches built into their lining. He's gothic architecture and the sound of Big Ben and cheers at a wedding and the happiness of a mother when her baby is born. He's the echoes of  _I love you_ 's off airport walls and the tears of the grief stricken. He's the failed attempts of the triumphant and the trumpets at the end of the world. He's the sight of an army marching into battle, blossoming flowers and the filtering of sunlight through the windshield. He's everything Dean can't imagine. Growing and glowing and barely fitting in the confinements of the room before he flickers back.

And then he's  _Cas_.  Dean's Cas.

Cas with tired eyes and a heartbeat. Cas with too much heart. Cas, who's rolling closer, breathing soft and saying. "I only let you see."

Dean's breath hitches.

"Yeah," he says, Cas's breath ghosting his lips. They're inches apart, and if he leans closer, just a bit, he could—

He follows through this time, tilts his head slightly and presses in, whispers the last part against Cas's mouth. "I noticed."

 

* * *

 

"I love you," Cas says, at some point. And that's how Dean knows he's fallen asleep. That this part's a dream.

He doesn't say it back. Not with words.

He's bad at those, even in the realm of his subconscious, so he shifts them around, pulls Cas in and kisses him sweetly. Kisses him all night long, until the sun rises. Until stars fall from the sky in the shapes of angels with curses of his name on their tongues.

 

* * *

 

Sam sees it first.

Dean catches it right after, as Cas stumbles into the kitchen on legs that shake like they've got a personal earthquake under them. He looks paler than he's ever been, watching Dean with glowing eyes that flutter shut every few seconds or so.

He almost looks like he had last night, stuck between Castiel and Cas. Angel and human all at once.

Dean walks over to him when he takes a seat, placing a hand on the guy's forehead. "You're warm," he says, stating the obvious. "You feeling okay?"

Cas twists toward him, placing his forehead against Dean's stomach, and even through the fabric of his shirt, Dean can feel how high Cas's temperature is climbing. This is the scary part. This—right here. Not the kissing or the touching or anything of that nature. Not Cas's confession or his true form. No. The scary part is Cas, who's probably sick. Cas who can  _die_  from that sickness now.

"No."

 

* * *

 

"Why would he be feeling the effects of falling  _now?"_ Dean's incredulous, because this doesn't make sense. "He's been on Earth for days. Hasn't had anything more than minor wing damage."

"You said you kissed him, right?"

"No. I said  _he_ kissed  _me_." A pause. "And then I kissed him."

Sam squints, holds his chin in his hand. "Just that once, though."

Dean looks away. Briefly. It's enough. 

When he glances back, something crosses Sam's face. It's like the look he had that morning, the one at seven a.m. that finally, finally pieced everything together. But this time—it's something else. It's caught around the edges and full of hesitancy.

"What?" Dean asks, suddenly panicky. "What is it?"

"It's  _you_ ," Sam says. "He's in love with you, and because he's finally getting to be with you, romantically,  _sexually_ —"

"Christ, Sam, really?."

"I'm just saying," Sam shrugs. "He's not at full power. He fell, Dean. Right smack outta heaven, at half grace, and now he's experiencing human emotion. It's burning him up from the inside out."

Dean feels his lungs stop working. His throat constricts, because of course.  _Of course_. This confirms the suspicions, the theories. He's so stupid—for thinking that this time, it would be different. That he  _isn't_  poison. He shouldn't have gotten comfortable. Shouldn't have allowed himself the chance to even  _think_  about being happy. Look where it got him. Look at what it's doing to him—hell, look at what it's doing to  _Cas_.

Sam drops his expression into something soft, into something pitiful, and Dean can't. He just can't.

"Dean—"

There is a scream. From the kitchen. Echoing down the corridor and skyrocketing Dean's anxiety levels.

Sam moves first, all but running toward the door with Dean on his heels, chasing a retreating blast of light down the hallway.

Back in the kitchen, Cas is doubled over, hunched and clutching at his chest, his stomach, standing under broken light bulbs and screaming, crying. _"Dean!"_

And Sam looks to him, following the name expectantly, like Dean can fix this, like Dean knows what he's supposed to do in a situation like this. Truth be told, Dean can't breathe, and seeing Castiel like this, seeing an angel in pain—because of him nonetheless—is just another reminder of how crazy this all is.

Cas croaks again, pleading this time, begging, falling onto his knees on the tile with a sickening crack, and Dean follows him down. He places a hand on Cas's shoulder before pulling back almost immediately. Cas is burning, like a star ready to explode, and Dean imagines that might be part of the issue.

"Sam—Sam, get ice."

Sam nods, moving out of view toward the freezer. He comes back as fast as he disappears, and Dean tries to clear his head enough to think straight.

"Cas, Cas—hey, hey—talk to me, man," Dean pleads, pushing hair out of Cas's face, trying to get a clear view to make sure everything's alright. He places the ice pack on the back of his neck, watching as the angel flinches slightly.

"It—it  _burns_ ," Cas chokes.

Dean's hand is dripping. The plastic of the ice pack is melting, disintegrating under the intensity of the heat, and he can't do more than stare in awe.

"He's burning right through it."

Sam moves again, quickly. He must, because before Dean has time to recognize his disappearance, he's being handed another bag of ice.

He takes it—all of it, cupping his hand and biting his cheek at the sting of the temperature. It means nothing to Cas, because he melts it, each time. Turns ice to water in mere seconds.

"We need something bigger," Dean says, looking up at Sam from where he's pressing the sweating ice against Cas's skin. It's already dripping, slipping trough Dean's fingers and falling in droplets to the cracked cement. "He might still have grace, but his vessel can't take this. He'll stroke out."

Sam's good at this, thinking on his feet, at thinking at all. It doesn't take him long. He heads for the door, "Meet me in the bathroom."

 

* * *

 

Getting Cas to the bathroom is a bit of a struggle. He can barely stand, and Dean can barely touch him. Its a rough pairing, but they'll make it work.

They have to.

Dean gets an idea—he stands, knees popping loudly as he races for the cupboard. He opens the one to the far right, tugs it open and two oven mitts out.

"Cas," he says, pulling them on. "You still with me?"

There's no response. Dean spins, sharp and swift on his heel. He drops back down. "Hey, hey, Cas—Can you stand?"

This time, Cas nods, taking Dean's mitt-covered hands when they're offered and pulling himself to his feet. He wobbles, tottering forward. Dean catches him with a hand to his chest.

"Easy."

Cas lets out a breath, harshly. It's slow, and he looks  _exhausted_ , but Dean's not about to let him rest. He straightens Cas out, "I can't carry you. Can you do this?"

"Yes," Cas says, uncertainly, moving sluggishly as Dean guides him down the hall.

Sam's standing there, as promised, filling up the tub with ice and water. This could work.

He finishes pouring in the last bag of it, and turns, hands darting out to guide Cas. Dean bats him away. "Don't touch him."

Sam cocks an eyebrow. Dean rolls his eyes. "You'll burn," he clarifies. And then to Cas: "Step in."

Cas does, and once he's in, his knees buckle. He goes down, abruptly, face first and without warning. Dean hears him gulp, the water splash, and shit, fuck—

"Dean!"

Dean pulls him back up, grabbing him by the fistfuls and tugging. Cas whips his head up, hair flying and mouth opening in a gasp that makes Dean drop to his knees in a puddle on the floor. He watches Cas scrabble for purchase on something, fingers wrapping around the edge of the tub and holding it as tightly as he can.

"I'm—alright," he says, haltingly, but it doesn't help Dean feel better in the slightest. Cas is choking, coughing up water with hair in his face and the wind knocked out of him.

He sits up enough to look Dean in the eyes, his own still glowing. They're dimmer now, and Dean can't tell if that's a good or bad thing. But Cas is holding him in a stare like he used to give the angels in his charge. "Do it again," he says.

Problem is that Dean doesn't  _want_ to do it again. Hell, he doesn't know if he even can. And on top of it all, he's wondering how good of an idea this is, having  _him_  be the one to force Cas underwater until he's begging to be let out, because Dean's trembling, and he feels like he could vomit at the sight of Cas struggling for air. For life.

"Cas—"

" _Now_ , Dean."

So he does it anyway. Because it's hope. And it's what Cas is asking for.

They repeat the action a few times, Dean shoving Cas's head under water and keeping him there until Cas is reaching a hand up and grasping for Dean's arm. Dean lets him go, then, quickly. Letting Cas recuperate and then dunking him under once more. Counting the seconds Cas is under in his head. The guy's got a set of lungs on him, Dean'll give him that.

Though, by the fifth time, Cas looks like he's about to pass out, and Dean's shaking so hard he can't control his nerves. He pulls back, pulls his hands off Cas and sits on his heels.  _That's enough_ , he says.

Cas is staring at him, but Dean doesn't meet his gaze.

Sam steps in, over Dean and placing he back of his hand on Cas's arm like he's feeling for a fever. And it's wrong, it's all wrong, because Dean's the one who got them into this mess, and therefore he's the one who should be getting them out.

"It's working," Sam states, glancing back at Dean over his shoulder. "He's cooling down."

And sure, maybe. Maybe it's doing good, helping Cas, but Dean feels like he's dying, and so goddamn useless.

"Just let him sit for a while, okay?" Sam says, and Dean's not sure if he's talking to him or Cas. If Sam's instructing the broken angel on how to take care of the useless hunter, or the other way around. No matter the direct address, it's still comical. A fallen angel and a grunt of an emotionally constipated man. What a pair.

"I'll be back," Sam continues, looking at Dean this time. He nods, and his eyes look like they do when he's trying to get Dean to talk. "If you need me, I'll be back."

 

* * *

 

So they sit there.

It's awkward, and silent, and the bathroom's flooded and Dean can't imagine that this will do wonders for the tile. He's soaked and Cas looks like a drowned rat and still, Dean wants nothing more than to have him. All of him.

His six heads and glowing eyes and his scorched wings and his big ass heart that always gets him into trouble.

 _Christ_ , Dean thinks,  _hell_. Because he can't have any of that. Not if he wants Cas to be okay.

 

* * *

 

It takes about twenty minutes for the light in Cas's eyes to fade out. His pupils look smaller when they're black instead of glowing, but Dean ignores it. He grabs Cas by the under arms and hauls him to his feet, struggling a little under the added weight of wet wings. Cas shakes them out, and it's weird, like a bird, almost, but with some sort of elegant twist.

Dean ducks when they move, and he turns just slightly, so that the water flying in every direction hits him in the back instead of the face.

"Sorry," Cas's teeth chatter. "It's involuntary."

"Don't worry about it," Dean dismisses, helping him out of the tub to a place where he can add to the ocean forming on the floor. He reaches for the towels on the counter and hands the first one to Cas, who takes it gingerly. "Wrap this around your waist, and then take your pants off."

Cas does as he's instructed, sending confused glances up at Dean every so often, and Dean looks away, skillfully keeping his eyes on the plain beige wall, and not the totally naked Cas clothed in nothing but a thin, striped, gray towel.

Dean glances up when he hears the sound of pants hitting the floor, and Cas is too busy bending to retrieve them to notice. His wing hits the light above the mirror, knocking it crooked, and he frowns at it, despite how his body is trembling. "I'm sorry, Dean."

Cas is standing there, still dripping, shivering, skin covered in goosebumps and Dean can't find the will to move. To do anything but stare.

He comes back to himself after a moment, shoves the extra towel at Cas and doesn't instruct him this time. He clears his throat, heads for the door. "Told you not to worry about it."

As he walks, he hears Cas ask something about what the extra item is needed for, and where he's going, but Dean doesn't answer. The words stick in his throat, so he turns around instead, and finds the damn guy with the towel wrapped around his head.

It's a sight to see: Castiel, soldier of heaven— _ex-soldier?_ —wings and all, with a towel around his waist and hair. The sight brings a smile to Dean's mouth, making the corners of his lips feel fuzzy until they tug upward, and he can't stop it. The sight makes him forget the weirdness of it all. Just for a second. Just for a sliver of an instant, he thinks: this could be nice.

Dean's laughing then, accidentally, letting it slip as Cas tilts his head and squints in hopes to understand. But this is Castiel, angel of the Lord. This is Castiel, soldier of heaven. This is Castiel: wrapped in towels with giant, black wings protruding from his shoulder blades and a dopey smile on his face that Dean put there.

This is Castiel: burning up from the inside out, because of Dean.

Dean turns his away, eyes stinging. "Sam put clothes on your bed, so you should be set."

"Oh. Um," Cas stands there, shifty, and Dean, Dean wants the floor to swallow him whole.

"Dean?"

"If you need help with the shirt, just let me know."

He hears Cas call for him a second time, probably to ask what's going on, where Dean will be and why everything got so weird out of the blue.  Dean answers with the soft closing of the door.

 

* * *

 

"I've got this," Sam says, and he's crowding in the bathroom where Dean's doing his best to mop up the water from earlier. He's already drained the tub, and gotten Cas to ignore him for the night, so this is just about the last thing on his list.

"It's already done," Dean replies. He holds up the soggy towel for proof, and Sam stares. He flicks his gaze up, to Dean, who stands. "I'll throw a load in the washer before we call it a night."

As he moves to leave, though, Sam blocks his path. He stands there, Sam, like a big fucking wall in the middle of the door. "Dean."

Dean stops, but he doesn't look up. He shuts his eyes tight. "Move, Sam."

"Dean, don't do this," Sam says, voice soft, pleading. "He needs you."

Dean meets his gaze, and he feels himself get angry. Truly, properly angry. "I'm  _killing_  him."

Sam meets his anger with sadness.  Dean blinks at the corner where ceiling meets wall and hopes to God Sam can't see his tears.

" _Move_ , Sam."

And this time, he does.

 

* * *

 

Despite Dean's better wishes, he crawls into bed with Cas that night. Cas watches him, in silence, with eyes too big and sad. Dean's glad the lights are off.

"I shouldn't have asked you to do that," Cas says, breaking the silence. "In the bathroom. That wasn't fair of me."

"Yeah, well, it's the least I can do," Dean huffs, shimmying under the covers and rolling away.

"This isn't your fault," Cas tells him, and he's a liar. Dean feels him sit up in bed. "This isn't  _anyone's_ fault."

That's a lie, too. Angels don't just fall from heaven for no reason at all. Dean wants to tell him that, to scream and shout until he goes hoarse and Cas understands.

He doesn't. He's tired. He says:  _we'll talk about it more in the morning._

Cas doesn't sound pleased, but he doesn't press. He slinks back down, let's it fall silent once more.

"Goodnight, Dean."

Dean doesn't say it back.

 

* * *

 

Dean wakes up alone. It's terrifying, truly, because just hours ago, Cas was burning, and then Dean shoved him away. And now he's gone.

Dean gets up, checks the clock and heads for the kitchen, where he knows Sam will be up and dicking around on his laptop. "Where's Cas?"

"Said his head was bothering him. Didn't want to wake you, so he went to his room."

And, duh. Dean should've thought of that.

Without another word to Sam, he spins, heading for Cas's room in a frantic rush. But once he gets there, once he's standing in front of the door, he realizes that this may have been a bad idea. That Cas might not even  _want_  to see him.

And oh  _God_. This is like that first time he went to visit Sam at Stanford. Twenty-two year old Sam fucking Winchester with the almost fiancé and the apartment and the interview for a freaking scholarship and a life. God, Christ—Sam had a  _life_.

Cas had a life.

And then Dean came in all his poisonous glory, and he wrecked that. Asked Cas to do too many favors and broke an  _angel_.

He swallows down the guilt, the anger that he feels at himself, because this is his mess, and he needs to fix it. He shoves open the door, harshly, finds Cas lying still on the bed. He's got Dean's headphones on, and even from where he's standing, Dean can hear the beat of  _Hells Bells_ blasting through the speakers. He walks over, softly, taps once on the top band.

"You'll go deaf like that."

"Dean," Cas croaks. He's moving to sit up, to take off the headphones and stare up at Dean blankly. There are bags under his eyes that suggest that he didn't get any sleep last night, and chapped, red lips that speak for themselves.

"I'm here, Cas," Dean says, crawling in beside him and doing his best to calm his heart rate when Cas curls into him. "I'm here. It's—you're going to be okay."

"It's so quiet," Cas says, and he sounds like he's in pain again. "That's all there is: silence. And I keep waiting—for a voice, for a broadcast, for—"

"For angel radio."

Cas nods, softly, pressing his forehead into Dean's chest and staying there. "The silence is deafening, and I don't know what to do."

 

* * *

 

"This shit's coming out of left field," Dean drops into the chair, head in his hands. He's exhausted, exasperated, "Please tell me you have something."

Sam pauses. He makes a face, but turns his laptop around anyway. Dean's so relieved he could cry.

"It's not like, official or anything," he explains, and Dean's too busy reading to note what's being said. His eyes run the page, scanning. It's a blog, some diary of angels and emotions and how their anatomy of emotions work. How grace keeps them angelic and holy or whatever. How humans and their mortal emotions suck that right out of them. 

There's something low in Dean's gut. An empty feeling that makes him want to laugh and be sick all at once. Instead, he goes quiet and turns the laptop back. 

 

* * *

 

On one of the worse days, Dean catches Cas on his knees.

He's not meant to see it, he's sure, because the door is almost closed, and Cas is talking nearly inaudibly under his breath. Dean watches him as he bows at the foot of the bed, stomach pressed to the side of the mattress and hands clasped in front of his face.

 _Father_ , he begs, voice breaking. _Father, please—_

Dean doesn't stay long enough to hear the rest.

 

* * *

 

The next night, Cas is the absolute worst Dean's ever seen him. 

He'd woken up screaming again. Writhing and thrashing and gasping and Dean panicked. He prayed and he prayed loud, all but yelling at the sky pathetically, because, son of a fucking bitch, this should be on _him_. Not Cas. 

He'd woken up Sam, in the mix of it all, who ran in gun in hand. 

It's the same as it's been since then, with Cas glowing and wailing and screaming, and the brothers standing there uselessly. Dean feels so helpless it hurts. 

"Don't look!" Cas shouts, pleading, begging. Dean can't tear his eyes away. "Don't— _don't!"_

And Sam listens, turning and ducking and following instructions. Dean stares. Watches as Cas writhes around on the mattress and gasps, fists curling in the sheets and breaths escaping him as he screams. As a burst of light overtakes the room. As Cas—Castiel—manifests, right there and then.

He doesn't look like Dean remembers him. He's all wrong—shattered wings and glitching lights and eyes.

Oh—the eyes are the same. It's Castiel, the angel, with his many faces and his glowing light and his angelic voice that Dean can't understand for the life of him. It's Castiel looking at him now, with his six heads and seventeen arms and many figures and his blue eyes that just won't quit it. Dean holds their gaze, carefully, breathing ragged and harsh. He feels so small, suddenly, and the room feels too big for the both of them even though Cas is barely fitting between the confinements of the walls and ceiling.

It doesn't last long.

The light retreats, and Cas is...Cas again. Cas, angel of the Lord, all scrunched into Jimmy Novak's vessel. But it hasn't been Jimmy for a while now.

Cas gasps, again, sucking in the light and choking, putting his face in the mattress and crying. Actually, physically crying. Dean doesn't move.

Sam stands up straight, moving his arm away from his face, and staring, like Dean's doing. They listen to Cas together, then, not moving to aid in any way, shape, or form. They listen to him sob, to him wail and gasp for air, and for the first time, Dean doesn't know if they can figure this one out.

 

* * *

 

"Dean, Dean—hey," Sam's blurry, a big, broad-shouldered floppy haired mess in the middle of the hallway.

"Breathe for me," he says, softly, hands going between touching Dean's shoulders and hovering around his face, "hey, hey, you're okay, okay?"

"Don't tell him—don't tell, oh  _God_ , Sam he's falling. He's falling because of us, Sam—Cas, Cas is—"

"Is fine. He's fine, but you're gonna wake him up if you keep going like this. Okay? Breathe, Dean."

 

* * *

 

When Dean gets back to bed, Cas is asleep. He shifts when the bed does, rolling down into the dip of the mattress. He ends up pressed into Dean's side, nose on his shoulder and hands by his ribs. Dean freezes.

He's torn between being selfish and being smart. Torn between holding Cas closer and pushing him away. So he lies there, stuck, body immobile as Cas shifts another time, coming closer, humming contently. His wing comes up and around, hanging over Dean like a blanket, and Dean can't help but think of how backward this all is.

Even when Cas is dying, he's still the one protecting Dean.

 

* * *

 

Dean dreams of his mother.

It's the second time in two weeks, but this time, there's no smile on her face. She does not tuck him in. She does not come near him.

 _Angels are watching over you,_ she says.  _But wait until you see the ruin you cause them._

 

* * *

 

That night, when Dean tries to speak, fresh out of his nightmare, Cas kisses him softly.

It's hesitant, and gentle, and gets Dean's heart pounding against his sternum. It's like a dream. And dammit—this isn't how it's supposed to go. He's supposed to be apologizing, saying the two words he just can't seem to articulate correctly.

But he swallows the failure down and licks into Cas's mouth instead. He'll work on it. After. After they collide hopelessly, breathing whispers of one another's names on each other's lips and falling back, back, until they're sideways on the bed and tangled in sheets and limbs.

There's s noise that Cas makes, one that gets Dean to forget the entirety of the English language and keeps him busy for hours. One that keeps him selfish, holding Cas tight against him and reveling in his presence.

One that makes two words turn into three.

_I'm sorry._

~~_I love you._ ~~

_I'm so sorry._

 

* * *

 

 _I need a favor_ , Dean prays, and it hurts—his knees, his throat, his stomach. His knuckles where they're clasped so tightly together that his skin's gone white.

_And I hate asking you this, I do, because you're a son of a—because I'm not the praying type. But I need—I need you to promise me that he'll be okay. Because he needs someone, and it can't be me._

There are tears in his eyes as he tilts his head back, staring at the ceiling helplessly. He laughs, and it's almost wrong, how much he's been laughing at non-funny things.

_I need you to help him, because he's about to hate me._

 

* * *

 

"So Thursday's, yeah?"

Cas frowns, lifting his head from where he'd been lying on Dean's chest. He looks confused, genuinely, and there's a moment where Dean wants to retract.

"Castiel, angel of Thursday's," Dean continues. Pauses. Purses his lips at the ceiling instead of Cas. "You get to pick what you're an angel of or what?"

Cas's frown deepens, and he pushes off Dean's chest to sit up straight on the couch. A slight flush comes over his face, though it's far from the color he gets when Dean gets him alone. He looks angry, ashamed, even.

"Dean, don't."

"I've been reading about you," Dean sits up as well, following Cas, pressing further no matter how much it stings. "Your angel days."

And now Cas  _really_  looks wrong. His face is twisted, and his voice comes out in a strangled tone that's trapped between pleading and warning. "Dean."

"Don't you miss it? Fighting the good fight, doing whatever else you flyin' ass monkeys do."

Cas stands, abruptly. He looks at Dean before he leaves, lingering for a moment, eyes hard and lips pressed in a fine line. He looks like he might say something, maybe, but just when Dean thinks he's about to, Cas shakes his head, and turns to walk right out the door.

 

* * *

 

For a while, Cas seems like he's getting better.

And for the entirety of that while, Dean doesn't talk to him. He counts the seconds, the minutes, the hours, the days—because it sucks, and he wants to cry, just a little. Cas beats him to it.

Dean doesn't suppose he's supposed to know. The guy holes himself up in his room and doesn't even try to interact with them. He isolates himself and barely touches the food Sam tries to shove his way. He sits in his room, alone, away from Dean, and sobs. And when he does, the lights flicker and dim until they go out completely.

"What did you  _do_?" Sam asks, incredulously. It's the fifth day since the big argument, six days since Dean's prayer session, and about twelve days since Cas announced that he was falling. It's the first day that the lights go out.

Sam's staring at him, waving his hands, the flashlight he's holding. It's the middle of the day and they're underground and in the dark.

Dean doesn't look him in the eyes. He can't. He swallows thickly, making the lump in his throat grow considerably in size. Sam lowers the flashlight, places a hand on Dean's shoulder. His voice goes soft. "Dean."

Dean lifts his head. He says nothing.

Sam's face says it all.

 

* * *

 

On the thirteenth day since Cas showed up at the bunker, Sam sighs. It's the sigh he gets when things seem hopeless, the sigh he gets when they've had their hundredth loss in the last twenty four hours. He stands right in front of Dean, who, for the record,  _isn't_ listening, and had absolutely no intention to. But at the sigh, his head snaps up on his own accord.

"It's Cas."

"It's his wings," Sam confirms, nodding, sitting down. "They're not healing right."

Dean does his best to look back down, to duck his head and ignore the topic completely, but Sam doesn't move. He sits there, and sits there, and  _stares_.

Dean knows he's not getting out of this one. "He know you're telling me?"

"He asked me not to tell you," Sam admits. Dean huffs out a breath of amusement.

"Then why are you?"

"Dean," Sam starts, "he—they're not  _healing_  right."

Dean shakes his head, like he doesn't know what that means. He does, though, of course. Way back when, they broke a lot of things, and nothing  _ever_  healed right. They didn't have proper doctors or checkups—they had their own two hands.

Dean knows what not healing right means. Not healing right means re-breaking and re-setting and all the things Dean thought he could leave to the two dumbass humans in the room. He never thought he'd have to re-break an  _angel_.

The thought makes him sick, and he shoves back, swings his leg over the bench at the kitchen table and moves to stand. Sam reaches for his arm, and Dean's not quick enough to escape it, not like this—emotionally vulnerable and a wreck inside. He stops, spins to face where Sam's eyes are pleading with him silently.

"It's gonna hurt him like hell," Sam says. "He's gonna need you."

Dean scoffs again, nearly tottering over on the verge of laughing and ripping his arm away from Sam like the touch burns. "He's got  _you_."

"I'm not what he wants."

"Oh, and  _I_  am?"

Sam sighs, and it's different now. This is his Dean sigh. The one he gives when he thinks Dean is being thick skulled. The one where he knows Dean is right, in his own way, but it's also his sigh where he knows there's more than one correct answer to the question at hand.

This is his sigh that gets Dean where he doesn't want to be.

 

* * *

 

"Dean's gonna hold you down."

Dean blinks, because, woah, alright, they never discussed  _that_. They're barely even in the room and Cas's head is whipping up to stare at them from where he's lying face down on the bed. He makes eye contact with Dean, holds his gaze, blankly, and Dean squirms under the stare. Cas looks away after a moment, to Sam. Opens his mouth and hardens his expression. "I told you not to—"

"Shut up," Sam says, before Cas can finish and Dean can start. "Okay? This is gonna hurt you like a son of a bitch, and I'm not strong enough to hold you down alone. I need him just as much as you do."

Cas shuts his mouth, and he looks anything but happy about it. His expression is drawn and his eyes are hard. His lips are pressed into a fine line. Dean squirms under his gaze.

Still, he moves to sit on the edge of the bed, because there's no avoiding this. Cas's wings aren't healing right, and if he and Sam don't fix them, no one will. Sam takes his position by Cas's wings. He braces one knee on Cas's back, and Dean holds his hands out to Cas emotionlessly. 

"You take anything?" Dean asks, staying low, choosing to keep his mouth shut when Cas slides his hand into his own. Cas squeezes, once. 

"Sam gave me something."

Dean glances over to Sam, who breathes heavily. "Mixed a few things together--Ibuprofin, advil, the works. I didn't go overboard. He's borderline human." A pause. Another breath. "He could overdose."

"Alright," Dean says, squeezing Cas's hand back to keep from trembling. "Let's get this show on the road."

 

* * *

 

When they're done, Cas passes out for a day and a half. Dean thinks it's a good sign, because maybe he didn't feel the pain as intensely, but the angel's loss of consciousness makes Dean woozy enough to spend the rest of the night being sick in the bathroom. Sam spends the rest of the night alone. 

 

* * *

 

"Oh, um."

Cas looks like he's going to vomit. It's been a few days since he's woken up. Since the breaking of his wings. Since he and Dean have had a solid conversation.  He's shifting weight, face pale, frame encompassed almost entirely by the shirt of Dean's that they modified for him. His wings are out, poking through holes that Sam cut to fit, but they're folded back, tucked away and as small as they can get.

"Dean, I—"

Dean holds up a hand. He hasn't slept in days, and his vision's blurry as he flips on the light, and stares at the place next to the table where Cas has the first aid kit out and open.

"What are you doing?"

"I was, um—" Cas shifts again, tucking his wings down further. "I needed to fix a bandage. It was not in my intentions to wake you."

"Come here," Dean says. "Let me see."

Cas takes a step back. His mouth opens slightly, "Dean, I wouldn't—I know how you feel about this, and I would not—I would never ask—"

"Cas," Dean asks, soft. "Come here. Please. And grab the kit."

Cas obeys, wordlessly, walking over step by step with the kit in hand until he's about a foot or so away from Dean. They face each other, momentarily, until Dean breaks the eye contact and Castiel sighs, deflating, turning around to face the far wall.

Dean takes a breath. He's never seen Cas's wings up close before these past few weeks, and even now, he's still taken aback by the sight of them. They're so...intricate. Black feathers are sewn into the lining of his shoulder blades and stretching up, layered over so delicately, so that it looks as if they'd fallen there, effortlessly.

He can't help himself when he reaches up, out, and draws his fingertips over the stretch of skin where it meets wing. It's a swift motion, straight up from the very bottom bone and up, up, until he's hitting Cas's neck. Cas shivers slightly.

Dean moves away, then. Trailing his hand up and out along the outer curve of the right wing, stopping only once he hits a bent out section. The feathers are matted here, covered in something so dark-red that it looks black, and clumping together on the bone. It looks frail, and it looks like it hurts.

"This the part that's been bothering you?" Dean asks. He runs his fingers gently around the injury, and Cas shivers a second time.

"Yes," Cas replies, but his voice is strained as he leans forward against the counter for support.

Dean nods, despite Cas not being able to see him. He reaches around and plucks the gauze from the first aid kit. He places a patch of it over the wound. "Give me your hand."

Cas lifts a hand up, uncertainly, and Dean takes it, guiding it over to hold the gauze in please. "Don't move until I say, okay?"

Cas gives what Dean counts as a nod, and Dean lets go, letting his touch linger just long enough on Cas's hand to feel his stomach turn and his head go light.

The medical tape goes on next, and Dean tells Cas to move once he's got a base wrap on. Once that's there, he starts wrapping an extra five to six layers. Cas brings a hand to his mouth to stifle what sounds like a pained sob.

Dean freezes. "Cas?"

Cas doesn't answer. He hunches his shoulders forward, but then brings them back, so that Dean's access to them is uninhibited once again. Dean does not move, even then.

"Cas," he says, stern, now. He holds the tape still, moving his free hand to place it on Cas's waist. He stops before he can get there. "Cas, hey. Talk to me, man. Am I hurting you?"

Again, there's no answer. Dean leans forward, trying to peer around, and watches as Cas's knuckles go white around the edge of the counter top. "Cas."

"No," Cas grounds out. "No—it's not—it's fine, Dean. Thank you."

"Cas, hey—" Dean cuts the tape and ties it off. He puts a hand on his shoulder, spinning Cas toward him, so that he can see the guy's face. Cas ducks. "Cas. If it's hurting you, it's not okay."

"That's not—"

"You can tell me if I'm hurting you—"

"It's not that!" Cas screams, and he's red now, completely, fully. Holding Dean's stare with fists clenched at his sides. His eyes are furious and sad all at once, and the mix is enough to get Dean to back off.

"Alright," Dean says, hands up and away from Cas's body. He keeps Cas's gaze, expression drawn, but nearly slipping when he realizes that this whole thing is backward.

Cas is the closed off one this time. He's angry and guarded, and Dean's staring, trying to decipher the issue at hand without words. It's funny. Laughable, even. Because, hell, there's a fucking angel about to start a fist fight in the kitchen.

"Do you need to be alone?"

Cas squints, but his anger does not diminish. "No."

"Do you  _want_  to be alone?"

"I don't know."

Cas wilts, significantly, dropping his ass into the nearest chair and his head into his hands. His wings go with him, gliding swiftly and taking out the first aid kit along the way. It crashes to the floor.

"Fuck," Cas breathes, and in the dim light Dean can see that the tip of his nose is colored red. "I'm sorry. I'll pick that up."

"I got it," Dean tells him. He bends, slowly, eyes on Cas until they can't be anymore. His fingers wrap around the handle, and he gathers it up before placing it back on the counter.

"You wanna tell me what this is all about?" He leans on the table, staring at Cas from his left.

"You wouldn't understand."

"Try me," Dean says, leaning forward, intent on listening and doing nothing but that.

"I am...an abomination," Cas states, plainly, eyes as dead as ever. It's a scary look on him, detachment, dissociation. His face is pale and the lighting in the room does nothing for the bags under his eyes. Dean feels the image like a punch to a chest.

"Yeah, well, so was Sam when you first met him, and somehow you still find him tolerable."

It's meant to be light and airy, but Cas stares, and Dean sees the last part of him fizzle out. He tries to tell himself that this was the best path to take, that saving his grace is more important than saving his heart, because in the end, once human emotion is cleared from Cas's head, he'll desire to be an angel above all else. He won't want Dean.

"You're not an abomination, Cas," Dean says, earnestly, trying with all his might to keep this interaction closed circuited. If he runs his mouth, if he says one word without thinking it through first, that's it. Game over.

"Can I ask you a question?" Cas licks his lips, adding to the already red and chapped skin around them. His hands twitch on the table top as his fingers fidget.

Dean feels his heart stop. "Yeah, Cas. 'Course."

"Is it the wings?"

"What?" Dean falters. He doesn't—he never really prepared an answer for this kind of conversation. "Cas, no. No, it's not—Christ."

"Then what?" Cas asks, and he's still now. Whole body devoid of anxiety and just full of exhaustion. He stares at Dean desperately, blue eyes wet. "Was it something I did?"

"Cas—"

"It must be something, for you to change so suddenly," Cas stands, now, and it's scary again, this whole idea of an angel being so taken with him. Him. Dean Winchester, the righteous fucking asshole who started the apocalypse.

"Dean, I do not expect...." he bites the inside of his cheek, taking a breath as he dips his head into his chest. When he looks up again, his eyes are glowing. "I only wish to make up for what I have done."

He reaches forward then, getting one hand on Dean's arm, and Dean startles, nearly falling backward off the stool in his panic to get away. Cas stares in awe.

"You didn't  _do_  anything!" Dean shouts, and it's a mess, because at this volume he'll wake up Sam, and start up a second conversation he won't have the answers for.

But the words are on his tongue, and he wishes Cas would stop looking at him like that—all hurt and surprise and sadness, because he doesn't get it. And it's so, it's so goddamn frustrating. How can he not see it? What Dean's doing to him. What Dean's  _done._

"I'm killing you, Cas," Dean confesses, and it's awful, the way his voice cracks. The way anger spikes it's way through Cas's features like wildfire. It starts as confusion before dropping into something more. Something hot and heavy that packs a punch to Dean's stomach.

Dean isn't too positive on how many more hits the two of them can take.

"Your grace is weakening. You're becoming human, and I know you see it, too. You're— _Cas."_

Cas's chest starts glowing to match his eyes—a blue brighter than a thousand suns. It starts in his sternum, then spreads out, highlighting his ribs and circulating. Trying to pool into his shoulders and stomach, but this time it fails and fizzles out, sparking and fading. Retracting back the way it came at such an accelerated pace that Dean gets a ghost sense of whiplash.

The angel has his hands clenched into fists, and he looks lost, really, caught between mad and sad and something else that Dean can't read. He swallows hard.

"Okay? Alright? Are you happy  _now_ , Cas?"

That must be the final straw. In seconds, Dean's looking straight into dull blue again.

It lasts a minute, maybe less. Dean doesn't count. Loses track of time and everything.

Castiel's hands uncurl to lie limp at his sides. Then, he collapses.

Dean rushes forward, instantly, body on autopilot, because if he thinks about this, if he thinks about the implications of the situation, it might just be the end of him. His arms shoot out, and catch Cas awkwardly, left hand a hair short of clipping the angel in the face and the right wrapped around his waist at a strange angle.

He stumbles, backward, but forces himself not to fall. No, there can't be two of them in this mess. Even if his heart begs. Even if his knees threaten to give out.

Sam runs through the doorway, gun in hand. He looks around, frantically, scanning the perimeter before his eyes fall on his brother and the slumped angel in his arms. He straightens, lowers his weapon.

"Oh."

Dean says nothing. He feels the words in his face, in his expression, body giving up on every function except holding Cas upright. Sam holds his gaze, searching, and it's then that Dean gets his mouth to move.

"Help me get him to bed."

 

* * *

 

"You, are incredibly stupid, Dean Winchester."

Dean doesn't look up. He doesn't need to. Doesn't want to. "Thanks, Cas."

Cas doesn't move. Dean feels him, sees the shadow of him looming on the desk. His body, his wings. He looks like the epitome of what kids are afraid of—the monsters that go bump in the night. And in a way, Dean sort of feels like a child: terrified and scared shitless of things out of his league.

But this is far from scary. It's out of his league, sure, but not scary.

"Sam," Cas says, calmly, "can you give Dean and I a moment alone?"

Sam takes a minute. Out of the corner of his eye, Dean watches him, as his expression goes from shocked to distressed.

"Yeah," he says, catching Dean's eye. Looking between them. "Yeah—I—I'll be in my room."

He disappears right after, leaving them alone, like Cas asked. Dean sighs, keeping his head low and his shoulders hunched. Cas remains where he is.

"Dean."

"Cas." Dean sits up straighter, bracing, half expecting to come face to face with a fuming, glowing warrior. But instead, when he looks up, he's met with Cas. And just Cas.

Soft haired, pajama wearing, barefoot, wings-tucked-behind-his-back Cas. Cas, who snores lightly in his sleep. Who hogs all the blankets. Who can't cook for shit and has little to no tact.

Cas. Just Cas.

"I believe we have some things to discuss."

"Really? Because last time I checked there was nothing left to talk about." 

He moves to stand, quickly, trying to get up and out of here so he can do what he does best and avoid this. He wants out of the bunker, because, hell, it's so goddamn stuffy in here. He could go for a drive, clear his head—

Cas blocks his path. And he's Castiel again, blue eyes glowing so bright they're nearly white. He squints, almost in disbelief, and Dean feels stupid.

How could he ever think this could work. A human and an angel? Is he out of his mind? Why would an angel even—why would something so powerful settle for something so low on the food chain?

He can't provide anything—not food or shelter or comfort or protection, because Castiel is light. Castiel is amazing. Castiel is a thousand times anything Dean can ever be.

"Let me go, Cas."

For a second, Cas looks like he might break. His expression wobbles and his light flickers, but in the end, his angel side wins out, and he stands there, glowing brighter than ever. 

"Castiel," Dean says, again, desperately, now. Having Cas use his grace like this is dangerous. He could fizzle out completely. Could burn right up in the middle of the kitchen and Dean will be sick for years after the fact. "I'm going to be real with you—that grace you're using? You don't have much left. You're burning it off, left and right, and sooner or later, you're going to burn out."

"Who says I don't want that?" Cas bites. His fists are clenched at his sides, and his wings are up and out, stretched to their full potential. It's meant to be threatening, but Dean will be damned if he runs screaming at the first sign of trouble.

"You want to fall?" Dean asks, stepping closer, ignoring how his heart speeds up. "Because I find that hard to believe. And if you're with me—that's what's gonna happen. I want this just as badly as you do, but running the risk of you dying just ain't worth it."

There's a beat. Cas's gaze softens. He looks away.

"Oh my god," Dean says, and he feels stupid for coming to this conclusion so late. "You knew, didn't you? When I asked you that night, if this would kill you—you _knew_ you might die. And you—you _what_ , Cas? You wanted to play some sicko game of fuck all before you went? Wanted to throw everything away for what? For _me?"_

"I chose you," Cas blinks at him. His chest is glowing faintly. "Every time. Over heaven, over my brothers. Over my sisters. I choose you. No matter the consequences. No matter hat happens, I always choose you."

"Shit, Cas," Dean laughs, but his throat and eyes are burning. "I don't want you to choose me."

"Son of a bitch," Cas echoes, glowing, but breaking. Laughing in return. The sound is wet. Dean's mouth is awfully dry. 

 

* * *

 

Dean finds them a case in Missouri. 

It's a simple one near Fellows Lake. He tells Sam, and they set out to leave in the morning. 

"What about Cas?" Sam asks.

"What about him?"

"You think leaving him there alone is the best thing?" Sam's looking at him in a way that feels like a punch to the stomach. He feels the weight of it all crashing around him, and even though he knows he's making the right choice, he's not so sure that he is.

"I think he needs to cool down, and he can't exactly do that with us turning up the heat all the time."

 "Dean," Sam tries, and Dean doesn't have to look at him to know he's being given pity. He wants to ignore it, to just let Sam run his mouth, to make his brother feel better by at least pretending to listen, but if Sam gets another word in, Dean can't promise he'll be able to hold himself together.

So he lowers the music, just a little, blocking off the middle of Stairway to Heaven to glance at him. "Sam."

There must be something in the way he speaks. Some phantom pain, some breaking point he lets slip, because Sam nods, just once, signaling that he's dropping it, even if just for now. And that's enough.

 

* * *

  
He's distracted, admittedly, going into the hunt with half a heart and a clouded mind, because, God, does this suck. 

It's supposed to be a simple case. Simple salt and burn for a ghost that died by the water. But instead, Dean's wandering land by himself, looking for a missing teenage girl and whatever took her. He can't find Sam and there's barely any service and his head's not even close to being in the right place. It's running around in circles and strings of Castiel. 

Eventually, about twenty minutes out down the coast line, Dean finds a body. Teenage girl—nineteen years of age, brunette. The latest victim. He bends down to turn her on her back, to see the damage that the ghost has done, but when he does, he finds that they’ve got it all wrong.

He pulls out his phone, quickly, types out a message to Sam. 

 _no_ _way_ _this_ _is_ _a_ _ghost_. _thinking_ _a_ _siren_ , _maybe_. _Got_ _a_ _bronze_ _dagger_ _in_ _the_ _trunk_. 

The message sends, and Dean stares hard at the single bar in the top corner of the screen. _Crap_. He hopes it delivers.

His phone pings in return, once, twice. Both times from Sam.

 _I saw Jess_ , the first message reads.  _Heard her, too._  

The second says: _I think we were wrong about the case. The lore doesn't make sense. It's not a ghost. I think it's a—_

"Dean?"

The voice of Castiel startles him, because it's absolutely _not_ in his head this time. He jumps, hand spazzing and sending his phone flying into the water. He looks down at where it's glowing under the surface. "Son of a bitch."

"Dean," Cas's voice continues, "Dean, where are you? Why'd you leave me?"

Dean freezes. His body's betraying him, and that's not fair, because he knows it's not Cas. He knows, yet his legs won't let him move away from the water. 

He’s gotta get back to Sam, gotta grab the dagger and get the—what was it again? Blood of a—of a—

“Dean,” Cas says again, somewhere closer. Dean spins wildly, searching frantically in every direction. Cas’s voice grows louder. 

“Dean!”

It’s desperation in his voice now. He sounds hurt and in pain and like he was the night after he prayed. Dean’s face scrunches, his expression crumples. His hands go over his ears. “ _Sam!_ ”

Something appears in front of him. It looks familiar. Black dress shoes and the hem of a beige trench coat and no, no—

“Sam!”

The person in front of him bends, slowly, surely, using one hand to lift Dean’s head straight up so that they’re eye to eye. So that he’s matching gazes with no other than Castiel.

This Cas has his head cocked like the real Cas, in his usual trying to comprehend fashion. And for a moment—and a moment only—they could be one and the same. Dean swallows, thickly, corners of his mouth pulled down in disgust.

”In love with an angel,” not-Cas says. “I feel like I should have seen this before. But I haven’t, and I can’t exactly say that I thought I would. ‘Specially not in your case."

“My case,” Dean repeats, stepping back, away.

"Fallen angel and a hunter. Might I add—angel who’s fallen _recently_.”

"How did you know that?" Dean’s takes aback. 

"That's my job, sweetheart," not-Cas moves closer, lifting his hands to cup Dean’s face again. “But there’s something wrong. So in love, yet oh so sad. What's the matter? Trouble in paradise?"

Dean scoffs. "More like hell on Earth."

"Hell on Earth? Ain't he an angel? How could—" not-Cas seems amused now, the corner of his mouth tugging upward into an amused smile. " _Ah,_  the reason the angel fell."

Dean steps back again, defensively, trying to keep things straight in his head. 

"Don't worry, darling, I won't lay a finger on your precious Castiel. I‘m not interested." Not-Cas pauses, sweetly. "I want _you_."

Dean snarls.

"And I think you'll want me."

"Why would I ever—?"

"Because I can help."

There's a pause.

"I’ll take care of you," he says.

Dean nods, "And Cas, too?"

"And Cas, too," not-Cas promises.

It’s promising, leaving now, stepping away with Castiel forever, even if it’s not his Castiel. It’s better than nothing, and at this point, Dean might just take it. 

”Dean!” Someone shouts, before he can do anything, and that’s Sam, thank heavens. Dean blinks, but his visions fuzzy, and he’s still reeling from whatever just happened. “Catch!”

There’s an object flying for him before he can process it. His hands fly out to gran it, and he does, just barely, fingers slipping on the handle, but holding on. 

And then Cas is there, standing on the cliffs edge, holding his hand out to Dean and smiling softly. 

Dean wants to take it. He does. Oh god, he does. He reaches out, body screaming, and remembering Sam's text. 

Siren. It’s a siren. Not Cas.

Siren. Bronze dagger, and, and—

Dean draws back, talong the blade to his palm and watching as it pulls a pool of crimson from his skin. It stains the metal, turning the tip red—the blood of a victim. 

He moves quick, quick, swinging his arm forward and driving the blade right into the center of Cas’s chest. But he’s not done yet, because he’s taking Cas’s hand and throwing them both over cliff’s edge as Sam’s left to scream in the distance.

 

* * *

 

Dean dreams of his mother.

 _Angels are watching over you_ , she says. And she is correct. There, over him, Cas is standing, but his face is twisted in what looks like pain, and Sam is frantic in the corner.

"I have some remaining grace. Not a lot, but—enough."

He raises a hand, presses two fingers to Dean's forehead.

 _Angels are watching over you_ , she repeats.

Dean can't breathe. He croaks, tries to talk— _what ruin have I caused them?_

"Cas," Sam says, desperately.

"You'll be alright, Dean."

The world goes dark.

 

* * *

 

It's quiet.

"Thank God," Sam breathes.

He's a blurry mess, hair flopping around his jawline and features colliding as Dean goes cross-eyed.

"What—what happened?" Dean asks.

His voice is surprising, much rougher than he last heard it, and that's never a good thing. He scrunches his face, brings a hand up to scrub at his eyes as he sits up. The room is blurry, too. Beige walls, no windows. Not the room he passed out in. He checks his body, both hands coming up, now, feeling for injuries and finding none.

Everything is clean, everything is solid—his arms, his chest, his stomach, his head—

He feels sick. He feels—

"Where's Cas?"

Sam bites his lip. He moves back as Dean sits up, and he's clear now—his face, his features. His expression. It's hiding something.

"Sam."

"Dean, just—just take a moment, okay? You're—you need to rest—"

"Really, Sam? Because I feel fine." He swivels around, pulling his legs over the side of the bed and nearly kicking Sam in the process. "Where's Cas?"

"Okay," Sam starts, ready to explain, but Dean's already moving. He's walking out of his room, and down the hall, hand skipping across the surface of each and brain hot wiring with worst case scenarios so quickly that he can't even think straight. He walks and walks and walks and his legs feel numb and is he breathing? Is he—

He stops in the doorway of Cas's room. Body and eyes locked on the bed, on the body on the bed, because no, no, Jesus, fuck, _no_ —

"What...?" But the question dies there, because he cant ask. He can't—he doesn't want to know, because if he doesn't know then there's still a chance that he can fix this, that they can fix this, that Cas wasn't stupid enough to, to—

"He's been out for days, I..." Sam shakes his head, mouth open at a total loss for words. "I didn't know what to do."

"What did _he_ do?" Dean asks, incredulous. He's angry and scared and Christ. _Christ_. He's just standing there, feeling helpless, hands waving because he doesn't know where to start. He doesn't know what to start.

His mouth stops working. His throat feels dry and his tongue might as well just take over his mouth completely, because it feels so fucking heavy and his head is swirling and Cas's wings are gone. Angel of the fucking Lord. And his wings are gone.

"Where are his wings?"

Sam doesn't answer, not the first time. There's a silence, and Dean counts the seconds that pass by listening to the pounding of his heart in his ears. It's relentless, and it feels like it's going to hijack his body until he explodes, leaving nothing but Dean sized bits all over the room.

"Sam," Dean repeats, bordering on desperate. "Where are his wings?"

"They just, they vanished," Sam offers, lamely. "He had them when he passed out, and then when I came to check on him, they were gone."

Dean squeezes his eyes shut.

There's a hope there that maybe, just maybe, when he opens his eyes, this will all be gone. Cas will be back to his half-human half-angel look, instead of his half-dead one on the bed. Things will be better, and they'll be fighting over something stupid rather than sitting in silence because Cas did the one thing Dean begged him not to do.

"Why did you let him?" Dean asks, eyes still closed. He swallows thickly. "You knew what he had left, and you—you  _knew_. Why did you let him?"

Sam's hand falls on his shoulder, and it's heavy. Everything's so fucking heavy. His head and heart and conscience. He turns around, only opening his eyes when he's sure he's facing Sam.

"Why did you let him?" He asks again, more in a pressing manner. His breathing is picking up, and his hands begin to shake.

"I didn't  _let_  him do anything," Sam states. The words are careful, chosen. "Dean, this was his choice, and his choice alone."

Dean spins back then. Logically, he knows they aren't Cas's parents, that Cas is a big boy, that they can't physically make the guy do anything, but for once—God, just once—he wants at least one of them to make the smart choice. Fuck hearts, fuck feelings.

"We can call Rowena, look up spells. We'll get him back, Dean."

Dean isn't listening. He stares at the bed, at Cas. Eyes open this time.

"You stupid bastard," he says.

Part of him wants Cas to hear him, to wake up and snark the shit out of this whole situation, because this—this is not how it's supposed to go. Not at all. No, no, no—

Not like this.

Freakin' angels of the Lord don't get to sacrifice themselves for him. For Dean Winchester, of all people.

Fucking angel of the Lord. No wings. No army.

Just Dean.

And god, he really fucked this one up, didn't he?

But that's what he does best, isn't it? Screws things up, screws people over. He's so damn greedy. So damn stupid.

It's a mix of the two that leads him where he goes next, and honestly, he takes it all back. Fuck the smart choice. Because this is Cas, human Cas, that they can't get back, that he'll never see again.

He dips down then, softly, on a whim, hands brushing hair off Cas's face and then sliding to cup his cheek. Tears pool in his eyes, so he closes them again, leaning down to press his lips to Cas's forehead.

Sam's oddly silent behind him, and somehow that's worse, because Dean starts crying. And it's so uncharacteristic, so...so something he's not ready to claim just yet, but he dips down, anyway, again, lower, aiming to press his lips to Cas's one last time.

He lingers there for a moment, tasting tears as they fall between them, as Cas's body jolts and suddenly starts moving up, against Dean, lips pressing in and hands gliding along on Dean's chest to push him off. Dean's stunned, confused, but he doesn't relent. Rather, he gets his hands on Cas's shoulders, pulling him closer, wrapping him tighter, to try to get as close as possible and never let him go. After a few seconds or so, Cas is still pushing, lips parting and curling around a desperate croak of  _Dean—Dean, I need to—_

So Dean relinquishes his hold, finally letting Cas shove him backward, though only a little, just to the end of arms reach. Cas stays there, content, and heaves out a breath.

" _Breathe_." He finishes.

Sam's beaming when Dean glances back at him to make sure that yes, he is seeing this, too, and Dean's—gaping. His body's not working like it should. His eyes are wet and his mouth won't move and his brain won't think and his whole entire being is screaming—

"I love you."

Cas blinks. "What?"

"I love you," Dean repeats, louder now, earning an eyebrow raise from Sam. He looks amused, and Dean will absolutely, positively get all the shit in the world for this later. But right now he doesn't care. He can't care. Because Cas is alive, and here, and nearly—if not completely—human, and in the aftershock of pulling a yet another dumb ass stunt trying to keep them safe, and, god. God.

"I love you," Dean repeats, a third time, trying to fight his way through the numbness in his tongue. "And I'm so—stupid, because I didn't realize it before, because it took all this to snap me the hell out of it, and I'm sorry—"

Cas cuts him off halfway through the speech. He shoots forward, gets a hand on either side of Dean's face and pulls until they're meeting in the middle, desperately, disgustingly. Sam makes a noise from somewhere to Dean's left, and—

 _I love you, too._ Cas says, but his lips are still connected with Dean's.

Dean doesn't pull back. He never wants to pull back. Never ever again. His tongue darts out without him thinking properly, and he tries to stop it, because, gross, Sam is still here. But Cas doesn't care. Cas is gasping, making keening noises and moving his hands to Dean's shoulders, shoving their bodies together roughly and kissing hard, and ultimately driving Sam to awkwardly shuffle out of the room.

Dean can't help but laugh at that, and it brings something weird and new into the session. He laughs, mouth stuck, and Cas laughs with him, softly. Gently. Smiling into the kiss until they're knocking teeth.

Dean pulls back, resting his forehead on Castiel's. 

Dean's taken aback, in awe. One step away from being rendered completely speechless. He's never seen blue eyes so close before. He's never seen Cas so up close before. And it's something new, and breathtaking and there's still a lingering tingle in his lips from where Cas had been dragging on his bottom lip and shit. Fuck.

It's eloquent, truly, the way he goes about it.

"Holy Shit, Cas," he breathes.

And Cas laughs, barking out loud, unhindered. The sound echoes off the walls, ricocheting and vibrating off his ribs and into Dean's hand.

"Holy shit, indeed."


End file.
